


I Bet my Life

by Shadowy_Temptress



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Aramis can't follow simple instructions, Crack, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Not to be taken seriously, OOC, Porthos wears an Iron Mask, Rating May Change, Richelieu is Obsessed, Richelieu is Possessive, Stockholm Syndrome, Thanks Elvesliketrees for doing this to me, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowy_Temptress/pseuds/Shadowy_Temptress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fairytale Crack AU. </p><p>Porthos du Vallon had only one chance to prove to the King of Winter that love wasn't shallow and fickle, one chance to find love. Of course, that chance came with a difficult price to pay. After all, who could learn to love and trust a man whose face was an iron mask, much less do so for a full year without looking upon his true face?</p><p>When Aramis d'Herblay found himself in a mysterious palace hidden by mountain cliffs, in the presence of the masked man who had rescued him from the woods deep in winter, the man he had only glanced upon fleetingly three moons ago, all he had were questions. Why was he deemed worth saving? Who was the man behind the iron mask, with eyes that held both anguish and hope? And perhaps the thing that made him wonder most; who was that who lay with him every night, whose face he couldn't see?</p><p>Not to be taken seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Errant Hats and Royalty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301508) by [Elvesliketrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvesliketrees/pseuds/Elvesliketrees). 



> Hey guys, I'm new here…and I guess my writing shows it! Been lurking around for months before giving in to my urges. This is a crack fic, the only type of stuff I am able to write, so don't take this too seriously! Yes, Portamis is my favorite pairing. 
> 
> I'll admit, this was inspired by Elvesliketrees' work, particularly "Of Errant Hats and Royalty". Fairytale crack is one of my favorite things. Fairytale crack with the Musketeers? Even moreso!

Cruel. Harsh. Unforgiving. These were the most common words uttered when many a person was asked to describe the enigma known as the King of Winter. Though many rumors were spread about the man with the frozen heart, who was said to rule far in the north from his castle of ice and glass, perhaps the greatest mystery about the King of Winter was his true face. After all, he was known by many different names, and wore even more different faces, depending on whom one was asking. Suffice to say; what many didn’t know was that the King of Winter had a favored guise, as well as a favored name: Armand de Richelieu. Truth be told, he wasn’t one who enjoyed sitting on his cold throne. Rather, the King preferred to _become_ the dark-cloaked Armand de Richelieu, and walk the sunny lands south of his kingdom. Of course, few knew why he did so, and even if they did have an inkling of why it was so, never so much as breathed it out. For of course, the King of Winter was one to be feared and respected, wasn’t he?

The King of Winter had taken in the young summer boy from the streets of his favorite southern land when the latter was in his fourteenth year, out of a mixture of both pity and desire, though some beg to differ and call said desire _lust_. It was probably no fault of his, however. Despite his hard life, Porthos du Vallon truly was a beautiful young man; tall, strong and dark, with a certain light to his piercing eyes and a mouth that laughed and smiled as easily as it curled in anger. Porthos was a diamond in the rough, brilliant despite his less-than-refined exterior. Such strength and such beauty, Armand couldn’t bear to leave undiscovered and untouched, especially not when the young man reminded him somewhat of someone he lost not too long ago. A selfish thought, he knew, but when was he ever anything but selfish? It was his very nature, his need to possess and his cold heart that led to his own heartbreak in the not-so-distant past, after all.

He knew that to succumb to his longing was wrong, however, desire got the better of him, and perhaps it was softened by his own need to give the boy a better life, one without need and want, one where he was loved rather than shunned. A second chance, he thought, to love and be loved in return. He was going to change, he promised himself. He was going to hold Porthos du Vallon close, and make things right. In the end, he took the lad away from the slums the latter called home, with promises of a new beginning, a good life, and no more fighting for what tomorrow could bring. No, Porthos was much better than what life handed to him at birth, and the King of Winter, whether driven by genuine concern or his own appetite, whisked the lad off to his secret retreat far from the city, which also happened to be the city of his own heartbreak.

With each passing season, Porthos du Vallon grew more and more beautiful, yet the heart he had since he was a child remained the same. The man was bold and strong, a born warrior, yet also had an easy smile that he didn’t hesitate to give, and a surprisingly tender nature that came out more than a few times. Armand fell deeper and deeper into his desire for the boy who had become a confident man, thinking that his frozen heart was seemingly thawing and opening up, though in reality it was his need to possess the boy and to be whole again that drove him. Whether Porthos was mastering the sword with his favorite companion Athos de la Fere, who was a stoic yet skilled soldier whom Armand had spirited away especially for him, or was lying in bed alone, in a deep sleep, the lonely Armand’s feelings for the man only grew, not only for his beauty but also for many more reasons. Unfortunately for him, Porthos also had an independent streak and stubbornness to him, traits he undoubtedly picked up from the streets. Armand worried, though he constantly chastised himself for his selfishness surfacing once more. He knew that he promised to change, but his need for Porthos only grew stronger. His cold heart wouldn’t just yield. Days and months passed, and the King of Winter’s need only grew. He had once caught a conversation between Porthos and Athos, both already in their twenty-seventh years, on who their ideal men were. While he was relieved that his boy preferred males after all, everything else he heard only served to fuel his need to claim, to hold, to give love to the man he desired. Things would be different, he thought. He’s mine. It would not end the way it once it. Never again.

Once again, selfishness proved to be the King of Winter’s undoing.

 

* * *

  

“Porthos, you have to understand. What good would it bring for you to ease your solitude by going out into the world?” Armand attempted to reason out. For many a time, the younger man, who was now in his twenty-eighth year, had spoken of his loneliness and longing, his need for freedom beyond the palace on the mountainside, hidden by cliffs and rock faces. The King of Winter did not see why his prince had to, however. Did Porthos not see what was in front of him? Here was a safe haven, away from the cruelty of the world. Here was someone who would love him, if only he asked to. What was it with humans and their being drawn to take such risks?

“Armand, you’ve been good and loving to me all this time, but I want to make my own choices, especially in matters of…you get it. I want to choose to love someone, and for someone to choose to love me. Is that too much to ask?” Porthos replied, standing firmly on his end of the argument. He was all too aware of how the older man looked at him, aware of how the man touched him at times with his cold, smooth fingers. He knew what the King of Winter wanted, yet didn’t seem to feel the same way. Sure, he loved Armand, but not in the way the King of Winter would have wanted. _What makes him so difficult? Why does he feel the need to have such a tight hold on me_ , he often wondered to himself. He was all too familiar with the King’s eyes, and the sadness it held, but the rest of the man he lived with for the past fourteen years was an enigma, one he tried to unlock more than a few times.

The King of Winter knew that his Porthos had a mind of his own, and he himself had promised to change, if it meant that the man he desired would choose him freely. The King was cunning however, and knew how to turn the situation to his favor. Had Porthos not mentioned that he wanted someone to love him the way he was? Surely looks were but superficial? His warrior was a very handsome man, and he knew too well that most people were shallow and fickle. Because of this human nature that Porthos was naïve towards, perhaps a deal would make the young man see the light after experiencing whatever it was he yearned for, and see that there was someone who wanted him with all his heart.

“Very well, love. I will give you one chance to find what you are looking for, so make it count,” he started, looking at Porthos in the eye. “Under a few conditions, of course.”

“Which are…?” Porthos asked, the sides of his mouth tugging upwards slightly into a grin. For him, one chance was better than none at all.

“When you find the one you seek, he must stay with you for a full year, to prove himself worthy of you. Should he fail the test, and I _would_ know if he does, you are to take me,” he smoothly replied. Porthos began to open his mouth, but was interrupted by a wave of Armand’s hand. Almost instantly, his face felt like it was being trapped in something. Raising his hands, the dark-skinned man felt his face to discover that it was now caged in a tight iron mask, save for his eyes and mouth.

“What the-…” he began, trying to demand an explanation as to why such a curse, or such a contraption was necessary. Was he not supposed to be free to pursue that one person, as long as he followed the conditions of the deal? Armand waved his hand once more, binding and silencing the now-masked man.

“Porthos, if I recall correctly, you mentioned that you wanted to find _love_. Humans are fickle creatures, easily swayed by beauty,” he spoke calmly, yet with a hint of a sneer to his tone. “If it’s love you really are after, you will not question the terms of this deal. Not that failing would even harm you, love.”

“I don’t understand! Why do this?!” Porthos growled in protest, placing his hands on the mask once more and attempting to pull it off his face. “Why make things difficult?”

“Because it’s difficult for you to understand. Because you do not see what’s in front of you, Porthos. Besides, you failed to let me finish. I’ve enchanted the mask so it comes off at a certain time of night, but under no circumstances should the person you take gaze upon your face. As I mentioned earlier, I _would_ know,” Armand chastised, before offering what he thought was a small consolation. “We’re connected, Porthos. More connected than you think.”

Porthos then knew that he had but one chance, and he was determined to make it count.

 

* * *

 

The cursed Porthos du Vallon had been watching the same man for over three months. He did not know the young hunter’s name, yet knew he was from the village a short distance from the foot of the mountain that housed the hidden palace – the palace that the King of Winter left for him to undertake his task. Thick raven waves, warm brown eyes, a pistol hanging from his belt, a bow slung across his back and a great shot. Porthos took all of them in the first time he encountered the hunter, which happened to be after he had fallen to one his the latter’s snares. With quick, deft hands, the young man had freed Porthos’ foot. Porthos had run away before his iron mask could be seen, yet the man called after him a few times, asking him if he was alright, and even dared walk in the direction he ran. Had he not chosen to employ the magic Armand had entrusted him with, he would have been caught.

He knew the man came everyday without fail, sometimes accompanied by a pale-eyed man yet alone most of the time. This time however, he did not see the young man with the dark eyes. Unusual, given his deduction that said man was most probably just scraping by to live. A moan echoed a short distance away, followed by what appeared to be a groan of pain. Porthos turned towards where the sound was coming from, trudging through the newly-fallen snow. The trees soon thinned out, and he reached a clearing, where he chanced upon a familiar sight.

The hunter lay slumped against the trunk of a tree, his skin turning blue from the cold and his forehead bleeding. His eyes were half-closed, and while Porthos saw that he was breathing, he knew for certain that the man didn’t have long in the world unless he did something. The masked man stepped towards the unconscious Adonis, his fear of masked face being beheld all but gone. Raising his gloved hands, Porthos grasped the man’s shoulders, which were firm and lean under the latter’s cloak, though his skin was just as frozen as his face. It was then that he realized that the unfortunate soul had neither his bow nor pistol with him. He was abducted and attacked, so it seemed, but as to whomever was the attacker, it was the last thing on Porthos’ mind.

 _Do I take him in?_ Porthos wondered a few times as he allowed the hunter to lean over him. For three turnings of the moon, he watched this man. For three months, he couldn’t help but walk through the same forest, seeking out the same person. Every time, it was the same thing, ever since the man had freed him that one autumn day. Porthos not only held the handsome hunter’s face in his mind, but also what he could make of the man’s person. _Compassionate_ , he decided, looking back at how the fellow freed him without hesitation. _Brave too_ , he thought as he remembered how the man tried to follow him as he ran. Surely if he had let his eyes fall on Porthos’ mask, he would have turned back? But he didn’t, the cursed man told himself. The hunter hadn’t run away, and nor did he hesitate to call out for him to come back. Perhaps, such a man was worth wagering his one chance on? In the end, Porthos hauled the hunter onto his shoulders, before chanting the spell that the King of Winter had taught him, a spell that would take both men home – to the palace on the mountain.

He was going to bet his life, and his love, his one chance on this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your reference, Athos, Porthos and Aramis are all the same age here: 28 years old. I'm not sure how old the characters (not actors) supposed to be on the show, but I have heard that Athos is supposed to be the oldest (by a year maybe), while Porthos and Aramis are around the same age? 
> 
> D'Artagnan (when he comes into the picture) would be about 21 here, and Richelieu is immortal, of course, as he's the King of Winter.


	2. Kingdom Of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis wakes up and finds himself in an unfamiliar room, gets punched by a woman and meets his masked savior for the first time!

The hunter Aramis d’Herblay’s long-lashed eyelids fluttered open as he woke to brightness and warmth – two things he did not expect. The last thing he remembered was blacking out in the snow after a group of bandits ambushed him and stripped him off his leathers and weapons. They had also taken away the game he hunted, the game that was to feed the whole of his small village. He grunted as he sat up, his body unclothed, save for some bandages wrapped around his torso and a pair of clean white braies, and his still stiff and rather cramped limbs protesting. He blinked once, then twice as he took in the brightness, the sight right before his very eyes.

Aramis never really knew, much less experienced such loveliness, such opulence for all the twenty-eight years he lived and breathed. His entire world was the humble village of his birth, and the woods that surrounded it. Such beauty, he thought, only existed in stories, or in faraway places he could only dream of setting his eyes on, like the palace of the Winter King and his stolen prince at the top of the world. The beauty he was more familiar with was an earthier, everyday sort, one that he strove to find all the time in anything – in the people he casually flirted with (for he enjoyed the company of both men and women alike, though he had a slight, not-so-secret preference for the former), in the stillness of the woods during the long walks he took, in the changing of the seasons, and in his best friend Marsac, the village recluse who occasionally hunted with him, and whom he shared a small cottage with until a month ago.

He felt a slight pain grip his heart at the thought of the man whom he felt he could have loved in time, had the latter not gotten stabbed a month prior, just because he happened to be at the wrong place, and at the wrong time. The memory of Marsac’s death was still fresh in Aramis’ mind, as was the nonchalance of nearly everyone else in the village with regards to the death. It was as if everyone had stopped caring about anything besides surviving and getting by ever since the cruel Comte Rochefort arrived in the village as its new headman. While Aramis managed to look forward to every new day and find more than a few reasons to stay despite Rochefort’s demands and his cruelty, it was as if all beauty suddenly departed his world when his dearest friend died, leaving him alone in the process. For the past month, he was but a shadow of his former self; the once easy smile on his face was replaced by a mockery of it, and he no longer felt content within his world. He kept up his patrol duties and continued meeting the high hunting quotas set upon him however, if only for the sense of duty for his hometown that he carried. While he did what was expected of him, one observant enough would notice that the handsome man had become a shadow of his former self. He ventured deeper into the woods to hunt and came back later and later. Truth be told, the young man wanted an escape, to fly away. Whether it was leaving or dying, he silently longed for something to take him away from his now-painful existence, despite the smiles he strove to put on. When he lay in the snow, after the bandits had attacked him, he would have accepted death with open arms, he would have gladly let the cold embrace him and envelop him, snatching away his final breath. Fate had a different plan for him, however.

Aramis ran his hand through his tangled raven waves, his fingertips feeling a bandage wrapped around his head. Was what he was seeing a dream? Had he died and gone to a paradise far from the world he knew? These thoughts ran through the young man’s head like a siren’s song, yet when his long, callused fingers brushed against the silky material of the blanket that covered him, he knew that it wasn’t just him being caught in but a vision or a fleeting reverie. The magnificent beauty that revealed itself to him was _real_. It was as if fate had had chastised him for rejecting the beauty around him in the moon’s turn that passed, and had given him one more chance. And indeed, it was as if the grey clouds in his heart and mind had started lifting up for the first time, and a light shone through.

The room was vast, larger than any room he had ever known. Its walls were painted a pale blue color, faintly accented with silver-white feathery strokes, and its interior grandiose without being ostentatious. Aramis knew he should have felt fear and suspicion. How he arrived in the room, he did not know, and that should have been reason to think that perhaps, something was amiss. _I shouldn’t be here_ , he thought, but his curiosity won out over his doubts. He allowed his awe to get the better of him and climbed down the large, curtained four-poster bed he had woken up in, a soft rug of thick white fur tickling his bare feet as they touched the floor. He padded towards one of the tall windows, stopping in front of it to watch the snow falling outside. The landscape was a foreign one to him; a world that was both white and dark, with only a few clumps of green trees here and there, and even then, they were still mostly covered in snow. Just a short distance away, past what seemed to be a drop, he noticed a heavily wooded landscape that seemed so far below. Now, he knew that there were tall mountains not so far from the edge of the woods, but never in his life did he imagine that they concealed a _palace_ , of all things, unless of course, he was mistaken and was actually in a palace elsewhere. Distractedly, Aramis looked down at his abdomen and pressed down against a spot, wincing as a sharp pain erupted. A relatively deep wound that was seemingly rather fresh, which meant that at best, only a couple of days must have passed. He picked at the end of the bandage, tempted to find out for himself.

“Gods, what are you doing, you imbecile?!” A sharp voice scolded rather loudly from behind him. Aramis turned back to find out who entered the room, and his eyes fell on a tall young woman, standing at the doorway, with an expression on her face that could be described as a glare. She certainly was a very attractive woman despite her frown, with long auburn curls, smooth rosy skin and a figure that just had enough curves, accentuated by a dress of rose silk. Aramis, overwhelmed by his feelings of surprise and wonder over being whisked away to a place he still couldn’t comprehend, failed to be on his guard. He raised an eyebrow and smirked at her, a smile that came surprisingly easily, just like other smiles used to, not long ago. What else could he do? The place, perhaps because it was far from the cruel world he once knew, somehow did start awakening parts of the old Aramis. The woman however, certainly wasn’t amused, for she shuffled over to him with a rustle of rose-colored silk skirts, her expression unchanging.

“Don’t you dare think that I don’t know that look. I didn’t give you permission to get up,” she barked, before grabbing Aramis’ shoulders and tugging at him so that he faced her. She looked at the bandage, before raising her eyes to his face, her expression still hostile. “You really are a terrible patient, aren’t you?! I swear, you’re just as bad as the Master,” she pointed out, before pushing the man backwards, towards the bed. _Master?_ Aramis thought at the mention of the word, only one of many questions that began to fill his mind, and that he didn’t dare voice out at the moment, as he was shoved onto the bed. The woman definitely was much stronger than she looked.

“This has always worked on him, so this should definitely work on you,” the redhead grunted, before balling her right hand into a fist. Aramis raised his eyebrows, knowing what was about to happen next. The woman however, was swift, and his head still throbbed in pain. Before he had the chance to react, she brought down her fist to his temple with a hard punch. The man’s vision blurred and before he knew it, everything he saw was consumed by black as he surrendered to the embrace of darkness and sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Aramis woke once more, not knowing how many hours, or perhaps days had passed, the first things he noticed were that he certainly wasn’t dreaming about finding himself in the grand room he thought he imagined, and that he wasn’t alone in said room. Said company was sitting at the foot of the bed. What he saw was but a large, dark silhouette, as the heaviness of sleep prevented him from seeing clearly.  He rubbed his eyes and blinked, before getting a better look at the stranger. When he did see clearly, the sight almost knocked the wind out of him. Images of recognition flashed through his mind. A brisk fall day late in the ninth month of the year, a foot caught in a snare, his eyes falling upon the victim, an imposing man whose face he could not see, and said man fleeing into the depths of the woods. _It couldn’t be,_ he thought, but what he remembered betrayed him. He never forgot that afternoon, never forgot the man, and never forgot the fleeting glimpse he got of a face caged by iron.

The man sitting in front of him was tall and strongly built. He was dressed in a doublet of the softest brown leather, threaded with gold embroidery and closed with golden clasps, a hint of white lace sticking out of his collar. His breeches were red silk, tucked into tall boots. Draped over his shoulders was what appeared to be a thick cloak of fur from a black bear, fastened by a large golden pin, and concealing his hands and half his sleeves were large, black leather gloves with gold embellishments on their cuffs. It wasn’t the fine garments that caught Aramis’ eye however, but the man’s face. A mask of dark iron concealed the entirety of his head, save for his eyes and his mouth. For the first time, Aramis looked into deep brown eyes that held a strange mixture of sadness and hope. He yearned to talk to the man he once thought was an illusion, to ask him why he was worth saving in the first place.

“No questions,” the enigmatic man spoke, before he stood up and shuffled towards Aramis’ side, extending his gloved fingers under the half-naked man’s chin and raising it upwards. His touch was surprisingly gentle, Aramis noticed, despite his imposing height and frame. “You gave me my life, I’m giving you yours,” the masked man murmured as his gaze fell to the hunter’s torso, wrapped in clean bandages. He let his fingers fly over them briefly, before unwrapping them. At that moment, Aramis knew that he had reason to fear. If his encounter with the redheaded woman told him anything, he was probably going to have a date with her fist once more. Also, there was the fact that a complete stranger was touching him, one who never spoke his name nor showed his face. Yet he sat still as the larger man continued. He felt no more pain, and there was something about the man’s gentle manner and the look in his eyes that made Aramis want to give him a chance.

The bandages came off, and he was greeted by the sight of three neat stitches on his abdomen, none of them bleeding any longer. The needlework was careful and fine, similar in technique to his method, and he knew that the wounds would eventually leave only fine scars. He looked up gratefully at the man, his savior. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice still holding a note of disbelief. The man did the same to the bandages on Aramis’ head, unwrapping them carefully.

“You have a choice, monsieur. I could take you back to where you came from, or you could stay here,” he offered, his voice never losing its gruff tone, as he removed the last of the linen. The woodsman pondered between his choices, though he knew in his heart that he did not want to return to the village in the wide valley, to Rochefort, to the world that he knew would only force him to make the effort to depart once more. He had one more chance, and he knew that it was going to be his last. On the other hand, he couldn't just leave behind the people he provided for, and had so many unanswered questions about his predicament, so many reasons to doubt. He knew that there was always the possibility that he would regret choosing to stay, yet he could not ignore the kindness of the man who now stood in front of him. He could not forget the look of loneliness in his dark eyes – a look he was all too familiar with, a look that perhaps, he himself had ever since that one day. Aramis realized that possibly, he and the masked man weren’t so different. It was then that he decided; it was better to take his chances with the unknown, rather than to fear the unfamiliar and return to a certainty he knew would only destroy him sooner or later.

“I shall stay, if you don’t mind,” he answered, nodding his head. The man in the iron mask turned a way and started walking towards the doors, before looking back at the man sitting on the bed, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Don't you worry, monsieur. Your village would be provided for and taken care of. I assure you that nobody would starve. As for you, you will dine with me tonight,” he stated, seemingly looking into Aramis' thoughts, before he pulled one of the doors open. It then dawned upon Aramis that he had failed to introduce himself properly and give the man his name. If he was going to stay, surely the man had to call him something other than “monsieur”.

“Aramis. Aramis d’Herblay,” he called, prompting the mysterious man to stop and glance back at him once more. For a few moments, there was hesitation in his eyes, but he relented.

“Call me Isaac,” he responded, before walking out. Aramis could have sworn that he heard the smallest hint of a smile in the man’s – no – Isaac’s rough voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis meets masked!Porthos! But yeah, Porthos couldn't exactly give his real name yet, could he? ;)


	3. A Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis meets Porthos ("Isaac") and Athos for dinner, after which he goes to bed…but not without a mysterious stranger climbing into bed with him, a stranger he couldn't seem to recognize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter, guys! Sorry that I'm such a slow writer!

 

Porthos looked up from the dining table as he heard two sets of footsteps enter the hall. He tried to suppress the smile that was threatening to form on his lips when he saw that Athos had done his job well, personally picking out such fine clothes for Aramis in his usual methodical, fussy fashion. Now, Porthos wouldn’t have minded if the woodsman had waltzed into the dining hall in his braies. The man had a lustful body after all, with a toned abdomen, lean yet muscular arms, and a lightly tanned complexion, all of which Porthos had glimpsed at more than a few times for the three days Aramis had surrendered himself into Hypnos’ embrace. Athos had insisted that their guest be dressed properly however, clearly accustomed to detecting his best friend’s tendency towards less-than-modest thoughts, even going as far as to take time picking out suitable clothing from both their wardrobes.

Aramis d’Herblay was now the furthest thing from the pitiful state Porthos had found him in. A fine doublet of mist gray leather, embellished with black embroidery, replaced the thin linen shirt he was left to freeze in after the attack, its front partially unfastened to show off the open, lace-trimmed collar of a clean white shirt. Instead of worn breeches, he now had on a finer, well-fitted pair made of black satin, tucked into dark knee-high boots that he recognized were Athos’. The small cut on his forehead had healed up nicely thanks to the bandages Porthos used – bandages the King of Winter himself had imbued with magic. His messy, dark waves were washed, his beard trimmed, and his skin scrubbed. Athos walked next to the woodsman, clothed in his usual somber blues and sable cloak, his bearing noble. A smile danced on his lips however, and Porthos saw his best friend chuckle at something Aramis had said. This surprised the masked man, though not in a negative way. He knew Athos to be rather reserved in manner, and seeing him smile and laugh in Aramis’ presence, despite them only having just met, was something that he did not entirely expect. _That Aramis…he must have a way with people_ , he thought, hiding the smile that was beginning to form on his face with his leather-gloved hands as he watched them draw closer. Normally, he was outgoing and friendly, but being around the man he put his freedom on line for made him more nervous than usual, which translated to him acting rather like his guardian, the King of Winter, when they exchanged words to each other for the first time.

Porthos’ eyes lingered on the pair, watching the huntsman’s movements. In contrast to Athos’ firm, steady yet regal pace that gave him a rather majestic air; Aramis had a rather light, swift gait that, to the eyes of the cursed prince, looked almost like he was dancing upon a zephyr. That, coupled with the man’s lively eyes and handsome face, a beauty that Porthos thought so rare and almost ethereal, made him wonder for a moment whether his guest was perhaps, an elusive sylph of the air in disguise. He silently chastised himself for the odd thought, reminding himself that Aramis was indeed human; otherwise he wouldn’t have been on the brink of death at that moment in the clearing.

Athos took his seat next to Porthos, patting the latter’s hand. Aramis however, had a slightly lost look in his eyes and remained standing. The masked man noticed this of course, and pulled out the other seat next to him, dawning upon him that even the man was nervous, and most likely unaccustomed to his surroundings. If he wanted to win his freedom, he knew he had to get it together and be himself. His mind went back to that day in the forest. Aramis had freed him and had even gone after him, even if he could have left him there, or run away. He recalled what happened hours ago, when Aramis woke up and truly saw him for perhaps the first time. Porthos never once noticed the man flinch, and had he been afraid, he certainly did not act on his fears and leave. _Remarkable really_ , he thought. If there was one thing he was supposed to be certain about, it was that Aramis d’Herblay was either exceedingly brave, or exceedingly foolish to trust him so quickly, despite not seeing his true face.

Once, Porthos knew himself to be brave. He did not think himself so now, not since the King of Winter had cursed him and tortured him with the iron mask. The man he used to be had an easy grin that was never hidden, an impulsiveness that not even the Winter King could easily tame, and an optimism that bordered on naïve, yet had its own charm. Now, he tried to conceal even the smallest of smiles, and waited three moons to whisk Aramis away, when in the past, before the mask came on, he would have looked the man in the eye without turning away. It was as if the mask made him a whole new person, one that he knew in his heart wasn’t himself.

 _Someone who could love me for myself, to look beyond the mask, yet here I am, letting it wear me,_ he realized. Armand might have given him a beautiful life that most could only dream of, yet Armand was also the King of Winter who held his treasures tightly with his icy grip, and never let them go.

 Porthos knew that a mask caged his visage for sixteen hours a day. But he also knew that he actually had the choice whether to merely wear the mask and return to the man he was, or to let the mask wear him and eventually become a stranger to himself. He had chosen Aramis d’Herblay, and he knew what his heart was telling him to do.

“Aramis, come sit here. You must eat!” Porthos invited, pointing at the chair, smiling. This time, he did not hide the expression that crept onto his face. “Can you forgive me for my coldness earlier, by the way? Truthfully, this is the first time I’ve had a guest in years,” he apologized, opening himself up to the young man for the first time.

 

* * *

 

“I cannot believe you drank all this!” Athos howled after he tipped a bottle of wine to his lips, only to find it empty. He slammed it down in mock displeasure as Aramis laughed at his misery. 

“There’s still plenty left, Athos. I mean, shouldn’t I be the one asking how you drank all _that_ ,” he replied cheekily, pointing at the three empty bottles of wine on Athos’ side, his expression one of feigned innocence, though a smirk was working its way on his face.

“Por-, I mean Isaac, it seems that our new friend drinks like a born sailor and eats like a pig,” Athos countered, his striking icy blue-gray eyes lighting up despite his seemingly serious expression, and somehow nearly letting something slip while directing his reply towards Porthos. Aramis did not notice it, however. The man had resumed wolfing down his food – not unusual, as he had not eaten in three days.

“Athos, let him off. Every man needs his sustenance,” Porthos chuckled; prompting a groan from his best friend, though the smile did not disappear from the latter’s eyes as he observed Aramis.

“You boys are too much! Small wonder how I’m able to put up with all of you,” a familiar woman’s voice added, her tone exasperated. It was the redheaded woman, who had entered without them noticing. Porthos gave Aramis a sheepish grin at the sight of her, as if to apologize for something.

“Ah, so you’ve met Constance, Aramis? Or rather, Constance’s fist?” he asked, a hint of laugher in his voice, though Aramis felt as if it wasn’t exactly a question. “She takes care of this place. You could even say that she takes care of me. Trust me, there aren’t many women like her,” he added, taking a gulp of wine.

“Violence…I like that in a woman,” the marksman agreed, rubbing his temple on the spot where he was struck. Constance glared at him, as she swept past the table, but not before swiping the empty plate that had been laid out, and piling it high with food. She disappeared through the back door without more than one last look at Isaac, Athos and him. Isaac leaned closer to Aramis, his warm breath tickling the latter’s cheek.

“She doesn’t like being around us gentlemen too often, much less those who think they could get away with _that_ ,” he whispered, before winking at his guest, causing the latter to blush slightly at the gesture. Was the man who called himself Isaac trying to flirt with him? He turned his head slightly and swallowed, as he wondered why he just _had_ to have a weakness for eyes that were beautiful and vibrant, yet concealed a certain sadness at the same time. He then looked the man from the corner of his eye with a comeback of his own, allowing the alcohol to lead his mind. He assumed that it was highly unlikely that the masked man was into other men anyway.

“Could I get away with _that_ around you, then?” he purred, almost certain that being in a place that gave him hope was bringing him back to the Aramis he was. Despite having been punched on the face, and waking up in a place full of questions, he was grateful that he had not been left to die in the cold after all. The masked man merely answered with a smirk. Aramis lowered his brown eyes towards his plate, taking a bite out of his richly decorated chocolate cake as he tried to swallow down his sudden bashfulness around Isaac.

 _We just met for heaven’s sake_ , he thought as he raised another glass of wine to his lips.

The food was quite truthfully the finest fare Aramis ever tasted. Accustomed to simple fare, the sight of well-cooked meats, vegetables he had never seen, fine wines and dishes of various colors and flavors almost overwhelmed him. The food, as well as the closeness of the two men, the enigmatic one who introduced himself as Athos, and his masked savior who called himself Isaac, made him feel as if he was seeing a different world, from the outside looking in. Yet he found himself eating and enjoying his time with them, as if they were old friends, even though they had just met.

 

* * *

 

Porthos looked back at the hands of the exquisite clock in his room, before he started unbuttoning his heavy doublet. Five minutes before he was to be freed of the curse upon his face for the next eight hours, five minutes before the first of many nights before he was to be free of Armand’s curse. His hands worked swiftly but steadily, finishing their work in but a matter of seconds.

His trousers came off next, and he sighed. A year was a long time, and he knew that even a month was long enough for the beautiful sylph to start asking questions that he could not answer. His name, why he wore the mask, why he refused to give answers. That he knew, as humans were curious beings after all, and he was not exempt from that. He longed to ask Aramis many things, yet knew that the last thing he wanted was to drive him away, as courageous as the woodsman was.

The stolen prince stood by his bed as he ran his now-bare hand over the iron mask that concealed his face. _What are the chances that we would succeed anyway? Who could learn to love something they couldn’t fathom or even see_ , he thought ruefully. He wanted so much to believe that things would be fine, that Aramis d’Herblay was a man who did not judge appearances, yet the mask still tormented him by just being there. It was a constant reminder of how high the stakes were, the possibility of failure, and the future that awaited him following that: a beautiful life in a gilded cage.

The clock struck ten, and its familiar chiming started. _One, two, three._ Porthos pulled on a soft white nightshirt with billowing sleeves, not bothering to lace up its front. _Four, five, six._ He watched as the bewitched lights went out by themselves outside his room, as they were elsewhere in the palace, save for his own quarters, thanks to the enchantment of the Winter King. _Seven, eight, nine._ He sat down on his bed, placing his hands on his face once more. On the last chime of the hour, the feeling of cold iron had disappeared.

Porthos took the gilded hand mirror from under his pillow and looked upon his reflection. A warm brown face, handsome in every sense of the word, replaced the cold, black iron that had imprisoned his visage. His hair and beard were dark and curly, his eyes deep-set, and his skin smooth. A long, fine scar ran down one eye, a remnant of a time long past, a time before he met the King of Winter.

He put down the mirror and tucked it under his pillow once more. Eight hours’ reprieve from the curse was all he had, before the mask came on again.

 

* * *

 

Aramis lay the dark, his body sinking into the soft mattress of the bed. All the lights had gone out only a minute ago, and the windows had drawn themselves shut, occurrences which he thought were undoubtedly the work of some form of magic that he once thought he could only dream of. As he waited to drift off to sleep once more, his thoughts turned towards the day that was now waning.

Athos de la Fere was deceptively serious and stern in demeanor, a child of winter with the bearing of an eagle, yet with perhaps, a soft heart beneath it all. He had walked into the room that evening to lead Aramis to the dining hall, mumbling about how the sight of someone wearing braies and nothing more was displeasing, before ordering the hunter to get dressed in the clothes prepared for him. Said man also warned him not to touch particular wines at the table before dinner, yet he was also the same man who had laughed after Aramis spoke of his encounter with Constance, whose eyes hid a certain light, and who had chosen his clothes with care.  

Isaac, it turned out, was also quite different from what Aramis had expected. Contrary to his formal manner the first time he spoke, the masked man turned out to be warm and friendly, yet oddly gentle, like his touch had been. Despite this however, the woodsman was still plagued with questions, foremost one about why Isaac wore such a mask at all times. Was it not difficult to eat with it on? Did he actually find it comfortable? Aramis knew that he had silently promised Isaac that there were to be no questions about the mask, the way he understood the man’s tone. He kept his curiosity to himself, yet it gnawed at him.

He still could not fathom what reason Isaac had to wear such a cage over his visage, when he was rather sure that the large man most likely had nothing to hide, at least nothing that was to be made a big fuss over. But then, he reminded himself, what did he know about the true nature of the unknown, when often, things were not what they appeared?

As with his encounters with beauty, Aramis also knew treachery, which he found came in many different shapes and forms, and often hid behind a mask of beauty. Comte Rochefort was beautiful, yet his heart was black as coal. Isaac? From what little he observed from the man, he could not bring himself to think the same, yet the questions lingered, questions borne out of a life hunting in the splendor of the woods that also had the means to kill him, a life where loveliness and deception, allure and danger often went hand in hand.

He heard the door creak open, and he twisted his body to see who it was that entered. His eyes could not make out anything in the blackness of the room, save for someone in the dark, taking the form of a large figure. The stranger shuffled towards the bed, its footsteps drawing nearer, before they stopped. Aramis felt a weight pulling itself onto the other half of the bed, a weight that he could tell, was considerably greater than his.

“Who’s there?” He whispered loudly. There was no reply, and he repeated the question without receiving any answer. Aramis rolled over to face the opposite direction once more, trying to brush off what he had just encountered. Perhaps it was merely the effect of the wine that he had drank during dinner.

A pair of large, sturdy hands encircled his waist in a surprisingly gentle manner, and the hunter turned in the direction of the body once more in an effort to look upon them, his face meeting a warm, firm chest. Against his better judgment, he rested his face against it as the hands worked to remove the fine nightshirt he had put on. _A man_ , he decided as he raised one of his naked arms towards where he thought the face was, unable to resist himself. His fingers met an unfamiliar mass of curls atop a head, and presumably human features that he could not recognize.

 _Who is this man?_ Aramis wondered, squinting in the darkness to see if he could get a better look, to no avail. The features were foreign to him, features he did not recognize in anyone from his stay in the palace. Athos had delicate, noble features and light waves, while Isaac had on a mask that he never removed, a mask that seemed impossible to open. As his eyelids grew heavy, Aramis was faced with yet another question he was surely not to find an answer for anytime soon. Was this something he could ask Isaac about? To ask a man whose face he had never laid his eyes on about a stranger whom he could not even see?

The stranger’s warm breath spread over Aramis’ naked chest, and tender fingers caressed his face, neck and back, as the latter allowed himself to be enraptured by Hypnos’ embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And who's the mysterious stranger in Aramis' bed? ;)
> 
> Yes, I incorporated one of my favorite lines from the show, just for the hell of it. :P
> 
> Two people managed to guess the inspirations for this story correctly! I will be writing some werewolf story featuring Portamis and a Horsemen of the Apocalypse AU. ^_^ Feel free to tell me which ones you're interested in from the list at the end of my work though! I'll be happy to hear your suggestions! :3


	4. Something Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis takes a small tour of the palace and stumbles into a particular room and sees someone sleeping! Not wanting to be caught, he takes refuge in yet another room and spends the whole morning surrounded by weapons, until "Isaac" finds him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter!

 

Aramis awoke to an empty bed, the cold sunlight of a winter morning streaming through the windows, which were now open. He looked down and was greeted by his naked body, the memory of a man’s warm body against his. He ran his hand down his chest, his rough fingertips feeling the lingering warmth on his skin.

 _So it wasn’t a dream_ , he thought as he looked to his side, gazing once more at the empty space on the bed. There was no sign of last night’s mystery stranger in the room, save for the slightly wrinkled sheets on the side which he had climbed onto, as well as the nightshirt that he had removed from the Aramis’ body, which was now lying on the rug, inside out. Evidently, what had transpired that night was more than just Morpheus’ work.

“To ask or not to ask?” Aramis murmured, thinking of both Isaac and the stranger as he sat up and pulled himself to the edge of his bed. The snow fell heavily outside the palace, and while it was warm in the room, the sight of the white flakes falling from a sky that was the color of Athos’ icy eyes, made him remember the cold, and he shivered a little as he thought of his village once more. Isaac had guaranteed that its people were to be cared for, that he would not need to worry. Aramis knew that, judging by what Isaac had done for him, he most probably had the masked man’s word, yet still he found himself feeling a small amount of concern for the place he had left behind, despite how the beauty in the valley settlement had since been gone, and how it only brought him suffering since that day.

He rose up and padded towards the door, his feet bare. Pulling one of the gilded handles, he stuck his head outside. What greeted him was an empty, quiet corridor almost devoid of sound, and nary a person walking its marble floor.

 _Strange,_ he thought, as he looked left then right, feeling the urge to explore the palace that was now his new home. He started to open the door a little wider; before he realized that he was still naked as the day he was born. Chuckling softly at his absentmindedness, he closed his door once more and made his way to the richly carved wooden armoire that rested against one of the ornate walls, hoping that there was at least a pair of clean braies to slip into.

To his surprise, the wardrobe contained not merely a pair of braies, but also some lovely clothes. Aramis selected a loose gray shirt with a lace-trimmed collar and put it on, lacing its front halfway up. He then donned on a pair of soft, dark breeches, and topped it off with an emerald-colored doublet. After pulling on the boots that had been left for him, he stepped out of the room, into the still-quiet corridor.

 

* * *

 

The palace was vast; larger than Aramis imagined, and its opulence almost exceeded what his mind could comprehend. Marble sculptures lined the corridors, carved gold framed the tall windows, and all the doors were works of art. It was said doors that he took notice of most, each of them different from the next.  Unable to sate his curiosity, considering the endless questions that plagued his mind, he found himself opening some of the doors, and even daring to take a lingering look behind one particularly interesting door, decorated in gold with what looked to be bear motifs, when he was sure that nobody was watching. 

It just so happened that behind the gilded door was a bedroom, and not just any ordinary bedroom at that. Its four walls were carmine in color, its numerous hangings mostly orange, brown and gold in color. Somehow, the room reminded Aramis of fire or perhaps autumn, the same way his own room brought to mind the sky. A vast four-poster bed with golden draping and red silk sheets as covers was perhaps, the room’s centerpiece. Said bed was not what caught his attention however, but rather, the man who lay atop it. Said man had the covers up to his neck, despite the warmth of the room, and an iron mask that concealed the entirety of his head, save for his lips, and warm brown eyelids edged with thick eyelashes.

 _Isaac?_ Aramis thought as he stepped towards the bed quietly to have a better look. It seemed that the man never removed his mask after all, which reinforced his belief that the stranger who had slept with him the night before was not his rescuer. He was sorely tempted to trail his fingers over the surface of the iron mask and try to find latch or lock, yet withheld his hand, if only to have but a few moments to watch the larger man in his seemingly peaceful slumber, watch the covers over the man’s chest rise and fall with his breathing. It was an intoxicating sight, and as much as Aramis tried to resist, it wasn’t easy to tear his eyes away from the sleeping man.

 _And what would become of me when I’m caught? I don’t truly know this man,_ he reminded himself as he stood up once more, his feelings in turmoil as he lingered in the presence of the man who had saved his life, the man who had welcomed him with open arms and cared for him, yet held his own secrets and refused to answer questions. What if he asked Isaac about the stranger? Would the masked man continue to be kind, or would his heart take a darker turn? At that moment, Aramis decided to step away and leave, but not before daring to extend his hand and touch the black iron mask once. He then turned away and made his way back towards the door, his footsteps muffled by the thick bearskin rug that lay on the floor next to the bed. He then closed the door behind him as silently as he could, before continuing down the corridor and opening the closest door he could find.

The second room he had stumbled into could not have been more different from Isaac’s bedroom. While the bedroom was grandiose, this room was relatively simple, with ivory walls and little in the way of decoration, though it was not without its own charm in Aramis’ eyes. Its charm did not lie in its appearance, but rather, in what the space contained, as it was no ordinary room, but a room that held various weapons, from elegant swords to mighty axes, sharp spears and even firearms. It was clear that the dark-haired man had never seen such a room before, having only laid eyes upon forges and small armories that carried only the most basic of supplies for all the years had lived. This, however, was something new to him, something that was in its own way, _beautiful_. 

Aramis sat on a velvet stool, carefully rubbing a soft cloth over the exquisite ebony-colored pistol he had in his hands; an array of different firearms, all ornately decorated, as well as wooden bows, spread out on the table in front of him. The weapons were familiar, in that he knew how to use them, yet still foreign to him in a strange way. Most of them were lovely and ornately decorated; the pistol had small golden curlicues that elegantly adorned its barrel, and a golden trigger; the others had their own unique accents as well. It was clear to the marksman though, that not all of them had seen much use, judging from the lack of wear on many of them, as well as the fine layer of dust that had settled on them.

He thus, took it upon himself to pass the morning cleaning the guns, his being surrounded by the beauty of his favored weapons giving him a sense of contentment and taking his mind away from all the questions that plagued him, if only temporarily. _Respect your weapon and it will respect you_ , his father used to tell him when he was but a young boy; words that he still took to heart even in the present. Thanks to the care he learned to give to his hunting equipment, the old pistol and the wooden bow served him well for many years, up to the moment they were taken away from him. Aramis was thus one who thought that all weapons, whether crude like the ones he used, or exquisite, such as the ones in front of him, deserved the same care and respect. He raised the now-shiny pistol, looked it over and tested its trigger, before setting it down on the table alongside the ones he had already finished cleaning, and picked up a long, mahogany-colored harquebus and began his work on it.

Time was but a blur to Aramis as he sat in the room, going about what he was doing. He did not realize how high the sun was in the sky, until he heard the familiar creak of the doors being opened, and familiar footsteps entering the room. The raven-haired man turned his head to see who it was. Standing in silence just a few feet away from him was Isaac, clad in his usual warm-colored finery. The masked man’s brown eyes were focused intently on him, and Aramis almost dropped the harquebus in shock. It was then that he realized that the sun was almost at its highest point in the sky; at it’s highest during winter that was.

“Figured I’d find you here. Huntsmen like you couldn’t exactly stay still, could they? May I see?” Isaac remarked before Aramis could open his mouth. The larger man strode towards the table and picked up the ebony pistol, looking at it carefully before kneeling down in front of the woodsman and placing a gloved hand on the harquebus the latter was cleaning. The masked man’s eyes were thoughtful and smiling. Aramis on the other hand, was slightly embarrassed. Had Isaac been looking for him all morning? And how did Isaac know what he did for a living, if they had only met twice?

“I could recognize _un_ _chasseur_ by how he cares for his weapons,” Isaac commented before the aforementioned hunter could ask him anything. “Is this your passion? Something you love doing?” The masked man prompted. Aramis looked Isaac in the eye, noticing the same sadness and hope that he saw the first time they truly met. The brown pools spoke of torment and loneliness, yet also of longing. They were hypnotic, and the huntsman longed to tell his story, how hunting was in fact something he loved, how everything changed on that one day in late autumn, how he had lost the will to live until but four days ago; he longed to have somebody to talk to, somebody who was not of the life he once had. Yet somehow, he felt more than reluctant to recall that day.

“Yes, it is…I miss it in fact, but it was not always that way,” he replied, trailing off as the memory came back to him. It was too painful for him to think about, much less share it with someone he barely knew, despite him wanting to let it off his chest, and said someone being surprisingly kind and nothing short of tender towards him. The blood and Marsac’s lifeless eyes flashed briefly before his eyes. “It’s a long story, Isaac,” he murmured, looking away.

The masked man shifted his hand from the gun so that it touched Aramis’, and the latter looked at him once more, surprise seeping into his pained expression.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked…but if you want someone to talk to about it when you feel the time is right, I’m here,” Isaac apologized, squeezing Aramis’ hand in what the huntsman interpreted as reassurance. “But you said you missed it, didn’t you? Now, if it is indeed your passion, how about I see if you deserve one of these,” he continued, motioning towards the weapons on the table, a hopeful look in his eyes that was mixed with hints of mischief. Isaac’s last sentence pushed Aramis’ torturous thoughts to the back of his mind, the man finding his reprieve from the memories that had threatened to torment him moments ago. His pride at stake, he put aside the harquebus he had been polishing and crossed his arms.

“ _Right_ , you’re a great shot with that charming mask of yours,” he taunted lightly, his mouth curling up into a smirk. Who was that man to doubt his capabilities? He was going to show him that was for sure.

“You wound me, _mon loup,”_ Isaac replied, his voice hurt, though the curl of his lips and the small twinkle in his eye said otherwise.

“And if I prove to be the better shot?” Aramis asked playfully as he tucked a few strands of fallen, dark waves behind his ears, wondering if the man in front of him was teasing him for his appetite the night before.

“Confidence, I like that in a man. Of course, I will reward you appropriately for impressing me,” Isaac chuckled as he took the polished ebony pistol on the table and placed it in Aramis’ hands, followed by one of the bows. “Dress warmly, and meet me in the main hall at four. Take your lunch first, however. You know what they say; a hungry hunter is no hunter,” he added, prompting an indignant shove from the smaller man.

 

* * *

 

“Porthos, you imbecile! Why did you challenge him when you know full well of his capabilities?” Athos scolded as his best friend fastened the clasps of his favorite bearskin cloak. Porthos merely gave a knowing look at the young man whose eyes were blue as winter.

“And what of that?” He replied calmly. Truth be told, he only wanted to be with Aramis as he hunted, rather than watch from afar. He was more than aware of the woodsman’s skill, yet knew of course, that he was not supposed to know of it in the first place.

“You don’t understand, do you? What if he asks you about the mask as his reward? What if he asks to see your true face?” Athos groaned, adjusting the black scarf he wore under the collar of his thick doublet and tugging on his gloves. Porthos draped an arm around his friend’s sable-clad shoulder and tilted his head so that his face was close to Athos’.

“Now, you have a fair point, but trust me, I got this covered. Got something much better, something that would make him forget about whatever questions he has. Don’t you worry about me as if you’re my father, you’re but seven months older than me,” he murmured, assuring his best friend that nothing would go awry, that all he wanted to do was find a reason to perhaps, give Aramis something he would truly appreciate in time for Yule. Porthos had seen the way the man handled firearms, with deftness and confidence, yet also with a certain tenderness that he didn’t fail to notice, especially that morning.

He recalled the man’s silence earlier, the shadows that had appeared in his eyes after he might have touched a nerve by asking a simple question. _But it was not always that way…it’s a long story,_ Porthos remembered. He couldn’t express it, but he wanted so much to be the one to take the dark clouds away from his beautiful sylph’s mind, for Aramis to trust him. He wanted to hold Aramis in his arms and tell the man that he was there for him, without fear that the latter would push him away. Perhaps if he made the right first move, he thought, it would be a step towards Aramis knowing the real him beyond the mask, a step towards the undoing of the curse without breaking the terms of the torturous deal.

Athos gave a slight nod in response, his eyes flickering with the slightest hint of warning, a warning that if something went awry and the deal were forfeit, he was not the man to be blamed. Porthos knew that look; he was on the receiving end of it too many times. It reminded him of the days before those three months of waiting, when Athos was the stern, serious ice to his warm, energetic fire.

“So, how about mink for ‘Mis?” the cursed prince offered, holding out a cloak of silky dark silver fur with silver clasps, evidently one of Armand’s own, a cheeky grin on his face. Only earlier did he realize that he had failed to leave Aramis a cloak of his own, and he did not want to imagine the poor man shivering outside and having to relive his near-death in the forest while the other two were comfortably warm. Athos, however, shook his head and dismissed it immediately.

“Porthos, Aramis is neither a woman nor as dainty as the Winter King! Silver, yes, but not mink,” he exclaimed, snatching the cloak away from the masked man’s hands and tossing it aside.

“Dainty, you say?” Porthos laughed before he reached into his armoire and pulled out another cloak, this time of silver wolf fur. The fur was thick and soft, yet had a certain rough look to it, and had the faintest hint of magic in them like all the other cloaks, enchanted with warmth by the King of Winter. "Handsome and wild, just like him," He joked as he held it out to Athos, who nodded and ran a gloved hand over its length, whispering a few words under his breath. The cloak shrank slightly, to a length and width that was certain to fit the huntsman.

“Much better,” he pronounced, putting on his hat. Porthos followed suit and led his companion outside the room, noticing that it was nearly time for them to take leave. 

 

* * *

 

“One more thing, no interfering with magic,” Aramis, now dressed warmly in a long coat of grey leather and a wide-brimmed felt hat, warned as he took a ball from his pouch and readied his harquebus. It was eventide, and the three of them were in the middle of a forest some ways down the mountain, having reached there quickly thanks to an odd powder Isaac had sprinkled over them. The cloak of wolf fur was laced with magic too, the woodsman observed; magic that kept him warm. Back where he used to live in, magic was only used for a few specific purposes. Here? It seemed to hang in the air and move around freely.

“You have my word. No magic,” the masked man promised. Aramis wanted to believe him, but couldn’t tear his eyes and thoughts away from the simper on the man’s lips. He grunted and took a few steps forward, his boots sinking into the snow. He then turned his back against the closest tree, drew the bowstring and waited. 

It only took a few minutes for a doe to emerge from the trees, within the huntsman’s line of sight. Aramis glanced sideways briefly at Aramis and Porthos, and placed a gloved finger to his lips before once again focusing his attention on the animal. It was as if the feelings of heaviness and resignation that he had experienced for the past month had gone, and were replaced by another familiar feeling, one that he encountered everyday back when his old life was once beautiful. It was a strange sensation, one he was still not entirely used to, but welcomed anyway.

The doe took a few cautious steps, and Aramis slowly stepped sideways as he silently lit the fuse, aligning himself with the animal’s shoulder. It glanced in his direction briefly. The man made the shot as it looked away, knowing that it could run within seconds if he didn’t act quickly.

A wounded cry pierced the still evening air, and Aramis stepped towards the felled deer, Athos and the masked man following behind. The deer lay in the snow, dead, an arrow sticking out of its right shoulder. Isaac knelt down and examined the puncture, digging out the ball with his fingers before looking up at the woodsman and beaming, Athos giving his best friend an odd look, groaning and shaking his head before smiling and nodding at his new friend.

“What did I say about confidence in a man,” the masked man recalled aloud as he got up and took out the vial of powder once more.

 

* * *

 

Aramis lay naked and in total darkness for the second night, the lights out, the windows drawn and the weight of the silent stranger on the other side of the bed. He was certain that said stranger was the same as the night before, having run his hands over his warm skin, muscular abdomen and curly hair. The silence was the same, as was the man stripping him of his nightshirt once more.

“You asleep?” he asked, moving closer to the larger body. "I just really want to know who you are," he continued, hoping for at least a sound from the stranger, even if it was only a grunt. There was no response, not that it surprised him. Perhaps the man was a deep sleeper, as Marsac was? Aramis’ questions ran through his mind once more, questions that had been forgotten about earlier that day that now resurfaced as the night closed in.

The stranger rolled over and once again took Aramis gently into strong arms and breathed on the smaller man’s skin with a warm breath that reminded Aramis of midsummer. Such passion and such tenderness only made the huntsman want to know more about whom he was bedding, yet though he tried to search his mind, he came up with no answers. _Who is he? Why can’t I see him?_ He thought as he tried to wriggle away, but the man held him fast, though not roughly. After a while, Aramis surrendered, finding himself unable to pull away. He leaned his head against the warm chest once more and drifted off to sleep in his phantom’s arms, wondering once more about the stranger's face.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Aramis stumbled upon a surprise in the empty dining hall, in the form of a large, heavy package wrapped in fine fabric and tied with a ribbon. He lifted it and was surprised at its heft. Noticing a small piece of paper tucked into the ribbon, he gently separated it from the bundle and held it up to his eyes.

_Do you think I go back on my promises? I hope you appreciate this small Yule present._

_\- Isaac_

Curious, the raven-haired man untied the ribbon and unwrapped the fabric, his jaw nearly dropping as he saw its contents. The bundle held the carved wooden bow he had used the previous evening, the ebony pistol and the beautiful harquebus. He looked towards the window at the falling snow, willing himself not to let the tears of happiness and surprise that had began to form fall from his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again guys, thanks for reading! I really appreciate you giving me a chance for my first work on here!


	5. The Bedfellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis continues to wonder who his mysterious bedfellow is, both him and Porthos find loopholes in their predicament, and the mysterious stranger doesn't like Aramis off the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter!

More than two months had passed, and still Aramis found no answers to the questions that had plagued his mind from the start, yet he found even more questions. He started to ponder on the nature of the castle’s owner – undoubtedly a man who had powerful magic, he guessed. The powders Isaac utilized on more than one occasion, the servants who were men of ice rather than flesh and blood. What was Isaac if he wasn’t a sorcerer? Or was the sorcerer in fact, Athos? And with such an opulent castle, was the masked man perhaps, a reclusive noble? Aramis had many unanswered inquiries that threatened to drive him mad, yet he knew better than to turn to his savior for answers. While the masked man Isaac had given Aramis no reason to mistrust him, there was still silence on the matter of certain questions; questions that Aramis learned not to ask the man whose dark iron mask belied a warm heart and a certain tenderness that even Marsac lacked, lest he see the haunted look in the dark brown pools once more, the haunted look that came when the man with the obscured face was asked about his iron cage.

The man briefly thought of his dead best friend once more. Marsac, whom he thought he might have learned to love given time and patience. Marsac, who clung on to him like vice, and never wanted to let him go, yet also had moments of coldness and indifference, moments where he refused to let even his best friend in. Marsac, with his fair hair, and cold eyes, the thousand-yard stare that never seemed to go away since the day he arrived, hands that gripped tightly and moods that rivaled that of the Winter King’s in fierceness. Over the months that passed, the pain of his loss had lessened to a dull ache that he found easier to shake off, to the point that he sometimes forgot about it. He still missed his best friend, but no longer found any point in agonizing himself over someone who could not be brought back no matter what. It was perhaps, partially because he could not help but notice how very different the man he used to live with was from Isaac, the man who had saved him and showed him beauty once more.

In contrast to his best friend’s moods and melancholic disposition, the masked man was warm and had an easy smile, and was generous with his time. Isaac always found time to see him everyday and often asked him to tell stories over their meals. Not make-believe stories, but real ones about his own life before the palace. Aramis often obliged, happy to find someone whom he could really talk to and who did not shut him out, and told of his old life, his walks in the woods, his youth, and even of his best friend. Isaac readily laughed and asked for more, and though Aramis found it rather odd at first, he soon came to appreciate the man’s enthusiasm for life. In many ways, Aramis found himself strangely drawn to the masked man.

Yet there was still the problem of his enigmatic bedfellow, the visitor who now laid beside him, the man whose visage he never once glanced upon. Aramis still was not sure whether he could bring himself to ask Isaac about the person. Here he was, gradually being drawn to a man who was more than his mask, yet sharing a bed with yet another man whose face he could not see, yet whose touch was familiar to him, yet foreign at the same time. He had felt guilt over that fact, especially considering how Isaac was to him. He might have been a routine flirt back in the village, but for reasons he himself could not explain, Isaac was an entirely different matter for him. 

“All I want to know is who you are, stranger. Answer me,” He spoke, facing the direction of the man, yet seeing nothing but darkness. Nobody knew how much he pined for even but a single candle at that moment.

A grunt escaped from the stranger’s mouth, and nothing more. Aramis sighed. He frankly had enough of the silence that as characteristic of every night, and decided for himself right then and there to sleep on the rug when the stranger still refused to reply with anything further. If the stranger did not speak, surely there would be no objection to his departure? The woodsman climbed down from his bed and lay on the soft white fur that was the rug. His reprieve was short-lived, however. A few moments later, he heard the bed heave as the stranger climbed down after him and scooped the naked man up with strong arms, placing him down gently on the bed once more before climbing back in, silent as ever.

“If you won’t tell me who you are, I’m leaving this room,” he announced in response to the gesture, before getting up once more and padding towards the doors. He gripped the handles and pulled at both sides, only to find that the doors had been shut fast. He tugged at them with all his strength, and even fiddled with what he knew was the lock, yet they did not yield, for some reason he could not fathom.

Strong arms encircled him once more after that and lifted him off the ground, carrying him towards the bed. The same arms encircled his bare flesh once more, never letting him go.

 

* * *

 

Aramis sat up in bed, his eyes trained on a book as a tall crystalline man, whom he knew as Cornet, walked into his room, carrying a silver platter with his breakfast. He looked up, however, as the living ice sculpture turned around and left, sighing as he began to eat. Cornet was yet another tight-lipped attendant just like the others who refused to answer particular questions, one who changed the topic when the huntsman tried to bring up even the slightest inquiry on Isaac, the palace or his mysterious visitor every night, or even why the servants were all of ice. All of them were the same, truthfully, mysterious figures who never revealed their depths.

It was the sixth night in a row that he had threatened to sleep on the rug, the sixth night that the stranger responded in the same manner; not with words, but by picking him up with thickly-muscled arms that he should have detested, arms that were gentle despite their hardness, arms that he found comfort in despite his reservations. Though he knew not the man’s true face, memories of the stranger’s features lingered on his fingertips and were etched on his mind. Tried as he might to think about other things, he could not forget them; if the fingers that had flew in the air to draw an invisible face said anything.

He looked down at the book he held once more, immersing himself in its words as he tried to push away his thoughts about his nightly visitor. Though he knew how to read, he was no scholar, hence he usually stuck to reading simpler books and stories, rather than things he knew he could not grasp. The book, which he had picked out of curiosity few days ago, told a legend that had oft-been whispered about all over the country for as long as he could remember, though nobody in his small village knew whether or not it truly happened. 

The book told the story of the King of Winter and a stolen prince who was actually a poor, handsome boy of ten summers whom the King fell in love with at first sight, and spirited away to his palace of ice at the top of the world. The stolen prince had been given a beautiful life, yet was trapped in a gilded cage by the Winter King, whose frozen heart and selfishness got the better of him. The boy was too beautiful, the King thought, too good to deserve mere mortal men. He wanted his treasure for himself to love and hold, and indeed he kept the boy away from the world for twenty years. The stolen prince did not think the same way however, and stole away one night after the King took him to bed, through magic he was forbidden to use. The human went back to his southern land, thinking himself free of the freezing clutches that held him. It did not take long for the jealous King to find out however, and within a fortnight, found him once more. Ruled by the cold cruelty and selfishness that was his nature, the King of Winter froze the man’s warm heart as punishment.

Aramis was all too familiar with stories of the Winter King and his frozen heart, as well as his many faces. He knew how the oft-whispered story came about; born out of a rumor on the streets of the far-off capital Aspir some years before he was born. The Winter King had been in the guise of a dark-cloaked man, it was said, and had taken away a young boy one day in early winter.

A disturbing thought dawned upon the dark-eyed man as he looked out the window and saw the falling snow. The palace had servants of ice, and magic abounded it in a way that he was not accustomed to. A masked man who concealed his face and refused to answer particular questions had rescued him deep in the woods in early winter, and whisked him away to a palace more beautiful than he imagined.

 _Is this masked man the King of Winter?_ He thought, closing the book as a slight chill made him shiver. He knew not the true face of the otherworldly King after all, and if there was anything that life taught him, it was that treachery could reside even in the warmest of exteriors and the most beautiful of creatures. Had he unwittingly gotten caught in a beautiful trap that he could not walk out of? Were there forces he was unaware of behind his rescue?

Yet, ever since he first laid eyes upon the snared man in the forest, he never saw or sensed winter in him. If Isaac reminded him of anything, it was warmth and fire, summer sunshine and bears. The masked man’s presence was very human as well, with nary a hint of otherworldliness. His eyes held sadness and anguish, not coldness. Refusal to answer questions aside, Isaac was, to Aramis, the furthest thing from a being of ice and snow. 

He opened the cover of the book once more and looked at the illustration on the front page. It depicted a tall, slender man dressed in richly decorated, light-colored clothing and a fur-trimmed cloak, his hair white as snow, his beard pointed and a crystalline crown upon his brow. The man sat upon a tall throne, his expression grim. Standing next to him and leaning towards the regal figure was a young man who appeared to be no more than eighteen winters, fair-haired and handsome, a small blossom in his hand. _The King of Winter and his captive prince_ , Aramis thought as he looked at the picture and then thought of Isaac once more. The masked man and the picture of the Winter King could not have been further apart. 

“Isaac is not the King of Winter, or anything associated with winter for that matter,” he said to himself before putting the book aside, the thought leaving his mind. The Winter King might have had many faces, but for Aramis, Isaac couldn’t have been one of them.

 _Then again, what do I know about magic and disguises?_ He thought before shaking his head. Of course he had no reason to fear or doubt his savior, the man who had given him everything, brought beauty back into his life and made him smile once more, was a cruel being with a cold heart. It was going to take more than a book to convince him that Isaac was someone he should have doubted. Whatever reason Isaac had for wearing such a mask, Aramis was not going to let it scare him. Isaac was not a man to fear. 

His fingers absentmindedly drew curls in the air once more; curls that Aramis knew were on his nightly visitor’s head. He shook his head and sighed, knowing there still was the matter of trying to curb his curiosity over the stranger. Glancing at his hand, an idea came upon him.

 _Perhaps I could learn how to draw?_ He thought, nodding as he decided that it was a good way to pass the time, as well as relieve himself from some of his questions. While his eyes had never truly seen the man, his hands have felt his features, and he felt as if he could perhaps, depict the man cloaked by the shadow of night from the memory of what he had touched and felt.

Aramis ate in haste with the thought that perhaps, he had found a way to discover in some way, the answers that he yearned for by himself, or at the very least, a way to distract himself from his own curiosity and the questions that afflicted his mind.

 

* * *

 

Athos tried his best not to feel sorry for the frustrated hunter who had just looked up at him in surprise as he entered the sitting room. Aramis’ long-fingered hands, shirtsleeves and face were covered in black ink stains, and several pieces of discarded, ruined paper were scattered on the floor, surrounding the finely carved table and his velvet seat. In the man’s stained hands were a quill pen with a slightly bent end and another sheet of paper, most likely covered in blotches as well. It was a rather comical, if sad sight. It had been a week since Athos had silently watched the man try his hand at drawing – with results that rivaled Porthos’ drawings at their worst.

“Drawing? Why didn’t you tell me, ‘Mis?” he chuckled as he sat next to the young man, using the nickname that he had grown used to calling him, thanks to Porthos. Taking one peek at the paper, he saw what he thought to be the crude outline of a man’s face, its edges smudged.

“I’m a hunter, not an artist,” Aramis replied as he caught the masked man looking at the paper. He paused and shook his head, crumpling up the sheet and tossing it along with the other discarded sheets. “Besides, you never told me you draw. Never took you for an artist either,” he snarked, putting aside the quill pen and crossing his arms. Athos chuckled, picking up the sheet of paper that Aramis had thrown away, and smoothed it out. Unlike Aramis, Athos’ hands were white and smooth, the hands of a nobleman 

“Who is this supposed to be anyway? This head looks nothing like any man I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” he commented dryly, though a smile danced on his lips. The raven-haired man scowled momentarily, before looking at him. Athos could have sworn he saw a moment of hesitation in the man’s dark pools brown as autumn leaves.

“Nobody you know of,” Aramis sighed, his eyes flicking towards the paper. “A man from my dreams every night for the past couple of months, the same man every time. A phantom, a shadow…” the man looked down briefly as he trailed off, and Athos saw uncertainty in his face, along with a faint blush. Athos gave him a pointed look, arching a fair brow.

“Alright, I might sound crazy, Athos, but you better not tell Isaac of this. I might be dreaming, or I might not be. It’s a man, at least as far as my skilled hands could tell, who visits me every night in bed without fail. Never seen his face, never speaks, only felt him. I don’t think it’s anyone I’ve _seen_ around here,” Aramis disclosed in a low voice, taking away the ruined sheet from his friend’s hands and crumpling it once more. “It’s just that Isaac…never mind, it’s nothing really,” he looked at the somber-eyed man expectantly, as if Athos perhaps had an answer to that. The dark-haired man had missed, by a moment, the tiny smile that Athos had given him.

“Well, first things first, ‘Mis. If you want to draw something _that_ difficult, don’t start with a quill pen. It could get messy,” Athos explained, quickly turning the conversation back to drawing. He knew that if he didn’t, questions were inevitably going to be asked. He took a clean sheet of paper from beside Aramis and looked over the instruments, before selecting a dull gray stylus. “Here, let me show you how it’s done,” he continued, motioning for Aramis to come closer.

“I hope you have more luck learning than Isaac. Let me just say, he’s hopeless at this,” he commented, causing Aramis to snicker lightly.

 

* * *

  

Porthos was rather pleased that the King of Winter had not elaborated on what exactly he was to do during the hours he was free of the curse, save for not showing his face to the man he chose. For all of two months, he had hidden himself in shadow and turned to Hypnos for reprieve. Tonight however, the part of him that was daring and bold, the part of him that was the man he used to be, told him that he technically was not breaking the terms of his deal with the Winter King, told him that as long as his face was concealed, what could the King do but watch?

Hence, he found himself concealing his face with a mundane mask – carved gold rather than the enchanted black iron, and taking his handsome sylph out of the palace for a walk. For just that one night, there was no Winter King, no iron prison, no deal, and no reminder of the burden he carried. The cold moon was high in the star-filled sky, partially illuminating the snow-covered mountainside. Aramis walked by him, his thick wolf cloak glistening silver in the moonlight.

“I guess I was entirely wrong with my assumptions on your sleeping habits,” Aramis conceded, his breath coming out in puffs of white. Porthos placed an arm on the smaller man’s shoulder, pulling him closer 

“You’re not, _mon loup._ Guess I’m just sleepless tonight. Restless too,” he admitted, pulling the shorter man gently towards a spot where the moon’s glow was particularly bright. A fallen log lay partially buried in the snow, and he coaxed Aramis to sit on it, before settling down beside him. It was his one of his favorite spots outside the hidden palace, especially at night, during a time when he was younger, naïve, and when there was no curse looming over him. He had never visited it once for the five months he had been tormented by the curse, and more than once even thought about not coming back.

Yet after the two months he lived with Aramis d’Herblay, the very presence of the man seemed to lighten his burden, and sometimes made him forget about the Winter King and his deal. The more time he spent with the _chausseur_ , the more he felt comfortable being himself, and the more he felt that he had not been wrong to bet his life on the man he had watched in the forest once upon a fall day. In many ways, Aramis was the gentle spring to the harsh winter that was the curse. He could not say it, but yearned for an end to his long winter.

Porthos noticed the faraway expression on the man’s face, and the gaze that seemed to look past the mountains, presumably in the direction of the little village that lay far below and not so far away.

“What’s wrong, love?” He asked, before he silently chastised himself for being so forward. The last thing he wanted was to scare the man away, and he dreaded the consequences for acting on his impulses in the wrong place, and at the wrong time. Aramis turned his head to face him, his eyes expressing a little surprise. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Porthos began to apologize, but was stopped by a gloved fingertip pressed against his lips.

“Don’t,” Aramis murmured as he moved his body closer to the masked man’s. Instead of an expression of indignation or disgust, Porthos noticed that a soft smile graced Aramis’ face.

“Love…I can live with that,” he commented, nodding his head and looking up at the stolen prince, his eyes like dark diamonds and the enigmatic smile that was more than it seemed still on his face. Porthos felt a sense of what seemed like peace wash over the man, who turned away to look past the mountains once more. The cursed prince felt like bursting, felt, at that moment, like he wanted to march up to the Winter King and tell the cold ruler that he had been wrong, to give up the bargain. Why did he have to wait nine months when he had all he wanted right in front of him? He wanted so much to tell Aramis many things – his true name, the curse that bound him, everything he felt; yet he still was not free and that fact reeled his impulses in once more.

“Isaac?” Aramis inquired. “About that long story…are you ready to hear it?” Porthos blinked once, before nodding, half-thinking he was dreaming that the hunter trusted him that much to tell a story that he knew was going to be painful.

“He was in the wrong place, at the wrong time,” Aramis began, narrating a story of death and loss, of how he had lost the will to live and to find beauty right after that, of how he tried to end his misery during the month that had followed. _We’re more alike than I guessed,_ Porthos thought as he listened to the man. Both of them were lonely souls, wanting to fly away from what kept them down. Though Aramis did not admit it, the stolen prince knew better, knew from the way he spoke of Marsac that the hunter wanted to love and wanted someone to turn to, just like Porthos himself did. He noticed something about Aramis’ facial expression however. What was once an expression of intense pain that he had seen in the weapons room, was now replaced by an expression of acceptance, of seeming detachment.

“Did you love Marsac, ‘Mis?” He asked, placing a hand on the man’s fur-clad shoulder and nudging him so that they were face to face.

“Once, I thought that I could have learned to do so. I was all he had, really, and he needed me,” he admitted, before shaking his head slowly. Porthos observed that the man’s eyes were dry, without the threat of tears, as he spoke. “No, I only loved him like a friend does another friend during his lifetime. Perhaps he might have felt differently, but I did not, though I thought I would have learned to do so given time and effort,” he admitted, realization dawning in his eyes with every word, from what the masked man could see.

“No use mourning what’s already gone, no use lamenting over what wasn’t there,” Aramis commented ruefully. “I was stupid, to think of giving up over something that wasn't worth dying for.” Porthos, though he did not show it, was rather relieved at the revelation, which turned out not to be as he feared. His feelings getting the better of him, he hugged the smaller man tightly, running his hands over raven curls.

“Aren’t you glad that I found you, then? You’re young, ‘Mis, and you’ve got too many years to waste. Happiness? It can never be forced, love,” he tenderly chastised before letting go. When Aramis broke the hug, he caught sight of some suspiciously familiar black smudges on the sliver he saw of the man’s wrist, black smudges he himself had gotten during a particularly trying lesson with Athos, after which the blue-eyed man had given up on him.

“Has Athos given you a difficult time, ‘Mis?” He inquired, taking Aramis’ wrist and pulling off the black glove that covered the man’s hand, revealing more black smudges. He laughed, and Aramis did as well, despite the mood earlier.

“He told me of your magnificent lack of skill,” the hunter hit back, his grin devious. “Hopeless, he described you.”

“Ah, I’ve grown used to that. Hope you have better luck than I ever did,” he replied as he looked up at the sky. Time had flown quicker than he imagined and dawn was now breaking. Aramis was looking up similarly, seemingly having the same thoughts.

“Of course I would. Athos is a patient teacher,” he said smugly, putting his glove back on and getting up. Porthos followed and stood by Aramis as he took out some powder.

“By the way, thank you Isaac…for everything.”

 

* * *

 

The next night, Aramis had lowered himself onto the rug once more, once again in total darkness. His mysterious bedfellow had arrived as usual, and he did not want to put up with a man who refused to speak, not when Isaac was on his mind.

“Don’t test me, stranger,” he warned as he laid his head on the soft white pelt. This did not have the desired effect however, as the unseen man got up from the bed, and padded towards where Aramis lay. The hunter felt his naked body being lifted up once more and placed gently on the bed, the visitor sliding in after.

That was not the end to it, however. Aramis felt both his hands being tugged back behind him, and a pair of soft restraints being fastened tightly over his wrists, restraints that Aramis knew were made of animal fur, judging from how they felt. He looked back over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the man who was now apparently trying to play games with him, only for the latter to turn him around and grasp him tightly, letting his mouth start feeling the tender skin down Aramis’ neck. The hunter gasped.

 _It’s as if this man is trying to be Isaac,_ he thought as he felt a hot tongue lick his left nipple. As much as he did not want to outwardly admit his pleasure, feelings for Isaac and all, it undeniably felt _good._

“Think you can hold a candle to Isaac, stranger? I think he’d be a better bedfellow than you’ll ever be,” he taunted. This was met by a sharp bite on his shoulder, causing Aramis to moan briefly, before he smirked mischievously at the stranger in the dark. If the man wasn’t going to answer him, he was just going to play the game. He enjoyed thrill and excitement just as Isaac did after all.

“Still silent, stranger?" he asked in a murmur before pushing himself upwards on the pillow. "Alright, two could play this game," he said, sinking his teeth into the stranger’s neck, and sucking deeply. While the mysterious man did not so much as flinch, there was the unmistakeable sound of soft moan escaping from his lips. For the first time since the stranger visited his room, the hunter laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy it! Thanks for reading again!


	6. Strange as Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! Sorry it's so late…I had this typed up on my laptop, when my graphics card died (it's a MacBook Pro) and I had to bring it to repair shop. Hope you enjoy this! :)

Aramis felt a pair of watching eyes over his shoulder as he drew, suddenly growing conscious of his work. With Athos’ help, no longer were his face, arms and shirtsleeves covered in dark ink stains, nor was the hopeless case that he once thought himself to be; yet he still was not fully confident in his abilities, a rare exception to his usual self-assured personality. Drawing was a world away from hunting after all. He looked back, taking his eyes off the half-finished drawing, and met the wide blue eyes of Constance, who had been silently observing him.

“Have you been watching me?” The hunter asked, instinctively shielding his work protectively with his body, dreading Constance’s inevitable insults. He might not have been as good an artist as Athos, but it did not mean that he was going to allow anyone to dismiss the piece that drove him to pour months of his time for learning and mastering an unfamiliar craft. Athos had deemed him good enough to use parchment, so it had to mean _something_. “For how long?”

“You wish, idiot. I was just passing by,” she answered defensively, turning away and leaving with a rustle of light green silk skirts before Aramis could say another word. He looked at her confusedly, noticing the small, strange smile that had replaced the disgruntled look on her face before she turned away – a fleeting smile that she was evidently trying her best to conceal. He couldn’t make out what that smile was for, and wondered whether she was merely teasing him, or perhaps knew something he did not.

He looked back at his work once more, wondering if there was in fact, something terribly wrong with it that Constance had noticed. He had tried his best, from memory, to capture an image of the stranger who visited his room every night, a man so silent and unyielding, with no words, a warm embrace and a hidden naughty side. Did Constance actually know his bedfellow? The woman had time and time again, deflected any question that came her way about the mysterious man, claiming that she had never seen or heard of such an intruder. Once, she had even dismissed his concerns as being a result of a wet dream, muttering, “boys will be boys” under her breath.

_But what is the truth behind the matter?_

The picture was that of the face and torso of a broad-shouldered, muscular man, with a handsome yet powerful face. His hair was curly, as was his well-trimmed beard, his eyes were large, deep-set and intoxicating, his features bold and magnetic: long lashes, strong brows, lustful lips that Aramis knew both kissed and bit with passion. The man’s trunk was unclothed, and he was only beginning to ink over the graphite lines that he used to lightly render the man’s familiarly firm and prominent abdominal muscles from memory, perhaps the memory of the stranger that stuck out to him most.

Once again, his thoughts drifted back to the dark room, to the unseen stranger who enveloped him with his summer warmth, teasing him as a passionate god did his mortal lover. He twisted a strand of his long, dark hair and could not help but be reminded of how the stranger entangled his fingers in said hair. Aramis felt his body grow hot at the intruding thoughts he could not help but think of, despite the painful words he had once uttered that one night, despite his own burning feelings for Isaac. 

_What of Isaac, then?_

Aramis stared down at the parchment, a pang of guilt jolting him out of his reverie. It was wrong, he _knew_ what he was doing was wrong and something that Isaac did not deserve, despite the latter having turned out to enjoy watching over his shoulder from time to time. He should have been sketching Isaac in all his beauty, sitting in front of him on a lovely afternoon in May such as this, telling stories his masked savior wanted to hear, perhaps even ask for his company for yet another night, whether under the stars or entwined in each other’s grasps. Yet, it was his own curiosity and the nagging questions that came with it that tempted him to pick up the quill in the first place. It was the mysterious visitor’s presence that forced his hand to make his own answers. He should have resented the phantom, yet instead, he was allured by him.

Isaac was safety and certainty; he was the warmth of a summer day, a fire in winter and the light of the sun, someone Aramis knew he was sure about. His mysterious bedfellow on the other hand, was a different sort altogether. Warm too, but akin to dangerous flames, unyielding in his silence, difficult to truly love, yet equally difficult to resist. Different though they were, both enigmatic figures had a few things in common – their stubbornness, their surprisingly gentle touches, and the way they cloaked themselves from the rest of the world – Isaac with his iron mask and fine clothes, the mysterious stranger with the shadows of the night.

 _Strange_ , Aramis thought, realizing his less-than-typical situation. Never had he dreamed of being torn between two men for wildly different reasons, let alone two men whose faces he never even glimpsed upon. He loved Isaac and would not deny it, yet he could not deny his bizarre obsession for the other man, unless he was lying to himself. 

He picked up his quill and resumed his work, promising himself that he was going to approach Isaac and ask to draw him, mask and all. He was going to create the most beautiful picture of Isaac and surprise his masked prince.

 

* * *

 

“So, who is this lovely man you’ve been busy drawing for the past months, ‘Mis?” Isaac queried as he unrolled the parchment in his hands, grinning at the inked picture. Aramis thrusted his hands forward as he tried to take it back, his cheeks flushing scarlet. Isaac was faster, however, and raised the parchment out of the huntsman’s reach. “I reckon it’s that horrid Comte de Rochefort?”

“As I have kindly reminded you months ago, the Comte de Rochefort is blond and hideous, with only one eye,” Aramis protested, leaning forward and never keeping his eyes off the masked man’s dancing deep brown pools. “Besides, why on Earth would I draw _him_ , of all people? I’d sooner bed a eunuch than consider him a passable subject.”

“For three months, you’ve never told me whom you’ve been sketching. Besides, there really is no shame in telling me whether or not it’s the Comte,” Isaac replied, tapping his leather-clad finger on his iron-covered chin, as he held up the picture with his other hand.

 _Right, no shame in telling him that I’ve been sketching a nightly sojourner he probably knows nothing of, that is,_ Aramis thought as he stared blankly at the picture for a few moments, trying to keep himself from turning red, before gathering his bearings and deciding to tell Isaac the same thing he initially told Athos. He wanted so much to tell his love the truth, yet did not exactly know how to put it, precisely because of the nature of the matter.

“Alright, alright. It’s not anyone you know, a man from my dreams, in fact. Same phantom, every night,” he spoke, words slipping out so easily that they sounded almost natural. They were half-true after all, for his bedfellow was indeed a nightly one, and a mysterious figure at that, like the specter Aramis likened him to, though he was more than just a dark wisp. He was real, and Aramis knew what his rough hands had felt. “He does not speak, Isaac. He’s quite…charming that way, really.”

“Ever since your first night? I think I know whom to blame for that,” Isaac smirked, looking at the drawing once more and tracing his finger over the inked lines. “I better tell Athos to keep you off all those wines and brandies from now on. Perhaps you’ll be having different dreams, ones that don’t grasp you with a mad desire to do crazy things,” he chuckled. Aramis’ expression morphed into a teasing glare.

“Do you perceive me as a lightweight, Isaac? You wound me, truly.”

“It’s stunning work, ‘Mis. Something I could only dream of doing. I mean, Athos told me that I was hopeless after a couple of months trying to teach me,” Isaac admired, throwing in a bit of self-deprecating humor as he dodged Aramis’ insinuation. “You better finish this with some color, ink’s not enough,” he added, glancing at the table, where sure enough, were some watercolors and brushes. The smaller man shifted in his seat before nodding. 

“I was just about to get to that but…” he began, before trailing off, once more remembering the one problem: how could he paint when he did not even know which colors to use? He shook his head, prompting Isaac to touch a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know which colors I should use.” 

Isaac threw his head back and laughed a warm laugh that was not so different from the sound of a rushing stream in summer.

“Oh, ‘Mis…is that the only problem?”

“Not everyone dreams in colors, imbecile,” Aramis defended himself, blushing furiously with embarrassment as he took the parchment from the masked man’s gloved hands and setting it back on the table. Isaac was unlikely to believe the truth anyway and was inevitably going to attribute it to drinking too much. If Isaac did believe it, however, Aramis knew he had everything to lose, and the last thing he wanted to lose was the man in front of him, as selfish his thoughts might have been.

“I think you should use any color that you desire,” Isaac smiled, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind Aramis’ ear. “I’m sure that it will turn out lovely, no matter what,” he breathed. The hunter looked up and met the masked man’s dark eyes, so earnest, so sincere, despite the fact that the picture was not of the masked man himself. Had he been facing Marsac, the broken man would have been less encouraging, and more than likely to blow up, Aramis thought. Marsac would have reacted differently, more  _jealously_. It was real love, he thought, that made Isaac so selfless and tender, for all the strength and enigma that he had, and for all the secrets Aramis knew he guarded.

Isaac blinked for a moment, and Aramis’ eyes fell on Isaac’s eyelids. He knew their familiar warm cocoa color, smooth skin, and the lighter scar that ran down one of them. He smiled, the mysterious prince’s striking coloring imbuing in him sudden inspiration. He looked at the drawing on the table, and looked back at Isaac once more, the latter’s eyes questioning. He could not put a finger on it, but he realized right then and there that the warm brown tone of what little he saw of Isaac’s skin just seemed the perfect color to use.

“Shall I use your complexion as inspiration then, Isaac? He is after all, a phantom, and surely phantoms could be of any color,” he inquired, grinning cheekily. As he spoke, however, he could have sworn that he saw a momentary flash of something unfathomable within Isaac’s eyes. The richly dressed man nodded, however, and his smile was warm and bright.

“And when this is finished, I will draw you, Isaac. Of course, if you don’t mind sitting still for me for a few weeks, that is,” Aramis added, never taking his eyes off the larger man as he took in the details he was soon going to be sketching: Isaac’s dark eyes and powerful frame, the iron mask and the black bearskin cloak, the mouth that laughed at his pronouncement. 

“More beautiful than the one you’re doing?” Isaac asked teasingly. Aramis gave him a mock glare in response, as if to tell him that it was a daft question to ask. 

“I know you, don’t I?” He exhaled, before leaning closer to Isaac, so that their faces almost touched. He raised a hand and stroked the cold iron. “And I could see you, couldn’t I?” His tone was teasing, and his lips hovered over the masked man’s mouth momentarily, before he took the plunge, kissing him passionately. The prince wasted no time in reciprocating, and impulsively placed his arms around Aramis, deepening the kiss as their tongues met and clashed in a battle that only they knew. 

“Gods, when will you two start acting like dignified men?” Athos interrupted, somehow managing to silently infiltrate the solarium without them noticing. He cast the lovers a disapproving look, though if one looked closely, the hint of a smile on his lips told a different story.

 

* * *

 

_The King of Winter gazed into his magic mirror, watching his beautiful summer prince sweep the roguish hunter into an embrace as their lips crushed against each other. He swiftly turned away, averting his eyes from the spectacle that he found himself unable to watch, as freezing agony burned inside him. It was a sting born out of envy, and though the King did not want to admit it, facing the possibility of heartbreak – something he was unfortunately no stranger to - was something he dreaded and refused to be reminded of._

_The wounds of twenty years past still felt so fresh to the cold-hearted King as he stormed out of the glistening chamber and down the hall of ice and glass, thinking of his Porthos, Porthos whom he could lose if he left things the way they were. He had been hurt one too many times, and he, out of his selfishness and jealousy, feared the possibility that he had to let his prince go. Almost half a year had already passed, and he was more than sure that Aramis d’Herblay was yet another human; fickle, weak and one who was bound to break the prince’s heart, and that he was going to be proven right in time. Still, it pained him to see his Porthos give in so easily to the man’s wiles; surrender so quickly to something he knew was only bound to end in grief and agony. Selfish though he might have been, a part of him did not want to see his treasure suffer the consequences of falling for the human, though there was a painful lesson that had to be learned._

_At the end of the hall was a pair of narrow, carved ice doors, hidden and glamoured from eyes apart from his own; any other man would have only seen an ornate wall. He pressed his hands on their cold surface, and they immediately swung open at his touch, revealing a tall, winding staircase. A dull ache throbbed inside his chest as he slowly ascended the hidden tower, each step a painful reminder of what he once lost, and was possibly going to lose._

_Too many times, he heard whispers of his cold and selfish nature, yet he felt that it was justified. Was he not the immortal King of Winter after all, a being above humans? Was it not in his nature to be the being he was? He often wished that humans realized their own natural state – one that was capricious, cowardly and weak-willed, fitting of their short-lived existence, save for the rare diamond in the rough. Surely their shallow, flighty concept of love was inferior to what he was sure he was capable of, given the chance? Why then, was Porthos drawn to Aramis d'Herblay when he could have had so much more? What then, would give a mortal man - one who had more than a glimpse of grandeur far beyond the ordinary - a reason to be repulsed by a higher, more glorious being like the King of Winter was, and choose a mundane life?_

_He stopped at the top of the frozen stairs, facing another pair of ornate, carved ice doors. This time, however, there was no need for him to raise his hands, for the doors swung open by themselves, revealing a rather small, circular chamber, the glassier, thinner ice of its walls letting in the bright light of the unsetting sun. A lone ice sculpture stood in the middle of the tower room. It was this sculpture, crafted in the form of a man, which the King of Winter fixed his frigid gaze on as another stab of pain pierced his heart._

_There was once a time, not too long ago, that the sculpture in the tower had a living, breathing human form, with a face not of ice, but of soft flesh, his hair smooth and fair, his eyes the blue of a clear sky. There was also a time when the beautiful human, like Porthos, walked the frosty halls of the castle, his very presence and warm heart thawing Armand’s heart a little. The man made the King feel something he never did before, and utterly intoxicated him with the simplest of gestures. Alas, the King loved too strongly, lusted too greatly and in the end, made his greatest mistake._

_Armand blinked back the single tear that threatened to fall from his eye. He never stopped regretting what he had done, but the past was the past, and he constantly reminded himself that it was indeed the mortal’s fault for refusing to see and comprehend what was right in front of him. He had given Porthos the chance to learn from his experience and he prayed that this time, his stolen prince would willingly come back to him after Aramis d’Herblay’s inevitable failure, and realize what was there all along._

_Yet, the smallest possibility that the hunter would succeed bothered Armand. While he had given in to Porthos, it did not mean that he was going to willingly relinquish him to a mere huntsman. There were no laws dictating honor that bound him; such were the laws of mere men who needed to rise above their natural state, and neither did he explicitly promise his stolen prince that he was going to stay uninvolved. He knew all he needed to know about the hunter, having watched him more than once from the magic mirror. He knew that it was enough._

_Armand held up both his hands as he focused, a ball of cold, pale blue energy materializing above his palms, steadily growing by the second. He knew that to carry out what he intended, he had to concentrate harder, unleash more of his power, for he did not merely need to harness the cold of winter, but also a force far greater than it._

_He was the King of Winter, far above men, and he was not going to lose to a mere mortal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what's our Winter King up to now, hm? ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I have quite a number of ideas for my wonderful world of Musketeers crack. :P 
> 
> \- More Fairytale AU - Disney or not. May extend to other tales (Thanks again Elvesliketrees for doing this to me!)  
> ***Tam Lin (Athamis, Portamis or Athos/D'Artagnan)  
> ***The Nutcracker and the Mouse King (Athamis)  
>   
> \- Persona/Tarot AU - I'm a Tarot card fan, and using the Major Arcana should be fun!  
>   
> \- Pokemon AU - Yup. Maybe with their Pokemon counterparts, the Swords of Justice?  
>   
> \- Horsemen of the Apocalypse AU - I got inspired by a set of really cool edits I saw on Tumblr.  
> ***Athos is Famine  
> ***Porthos is War  
> ***D'Artagnan is Pestilence/Conquest  
> ***Aramis is Death  
>   
> \- Phantom of the Opera - C'mon, who _doesn't_ want to see this end as OT3?  
>   
>  \- _Blood Moon_ : Werewolf AU - Suggested by Blasphemous Croutons, who posted a lovely story for inspiration!  
>   
> If any of you read this, and could manage to correctly guess what fairytale or myth this crack fic is inspired by…you get to choose which AU I would write next! That applies only to the first correct guesser, of course. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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